


i'll drink your potion, drown in my disease

by SolidScriptJess



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-21 00:16:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13729089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolidScriptJess/pseuds/SolidScriptJess
Summary: "The Christmas lights glinted off the sweat of his ruddy cheeks, painted his chapped lips gold, cast shadows beneath long, dark lashes. His bangs were falling forward, a whispery hum floating from his chest; his fingers twitched in Victor's. And Victor--Victor was drowning, willingly letting himself be dragged under the roar of his blood, the sickly sweet smell of cheap vodka, the crystalline flakes floating in through the opened window and gathering on his fringe. He loved him, he realized, sucking in the first breath of this new life, god, he loved him. When did he fall in love with him?"Victor first meets Yuuri when his family flies all the way from Japan to move in next door. Despite Victor's parents banning him from all association with the Katsukis, they manage to grow up as best friends and, somehow along the way, end up falling stupidly, terribly in love with each other.(Characters and tags will be added as the story is updated).





	i'll drink your potion, drown in my disease

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! I just really wanted to write a wholesome childhood friends-to-lovers au where I can study these two lovely boys growing up and discovering the world by each other's sides. I've lessened their age gap just slightly, but the fic will span from ages 5-8 to about 23-26. I'm not the best at writing children, so bear with me at first here. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy!

From the moment the “Sold” sticker had been slapped onto the outside of the bankrupt onsen everything that Katsuki Yuuri knew was changed. He went from waking up at 7am to shower in the public baths among balding business men before stumbling off to daycare in Mari’s impatient grip, his dog, Vicchan, barking at them from the front steps until they were completely out of sight, to waking up at 5am to shower all alone amongst empty stalls before sitting in what used to be the lively dining area to receive English lessons by a stern, graying old woman he thought he recognized as their neighbor who gardened at all hours of the day. His family packed up the only room he’d ever known and, along with it, the only home he’d ever known. Just three months after the onsen served its last customer, the Katsukis were spending their last night there, Vicchan tucked into Yuuri’s stomach as he curled up on the dining room floor between his mom and sister, their beds already packed up and on a plane to America, just a thin blanket left to keep them comfortable.

 

They had to leave Vicchan with his grumpy English tutor. Apparently the owners of the home they were renting didn’t want to risk the poodle destroying anything inside. His sister had tried to explain it to him the best she could, but Yuuri couldn’t understand why anyone _wouldn’t_ want his best friend, especially as the toy poodle, whimpering, licked at the tears streaming down his cheeks. In the end, they had to drag a sobbing Yuuri, furiously rubbing at his eyes with the scratchy sleeves of his sweater, all the way to the airport, all through customs, all through finding their seats on the plane. It wasn’t until the plane had taken off and a young flight attendant with a soft smile and warm eyes came around to ask him if he wanted a cup of apple juice that he calmed down. He kept his face stuffed into the wide rim of the plastic cup, delicately sipping the juice through sniffles, for the first two hours of the flight.

 

He still didn’t perk up when they pulled into the half-mile-long, winding drive that lead up to his new house, even though his mom had promised seeing it would make him feel better. What would make him feel better would be chasing Vicchan around shower stalls in soggy socks because someone had left the door open a crack again; what would make him feel better would be sticking his tongue between still-crooked baby teeth as he tried his hardest to balance a tray of katsudon orders on a sweaty palm. Home—his real home—would make him feel better.

 

Upstate New York was nothing like home. Everyone drove on the right side of the rode and looked at them with the cool, analyzing gazes of strangers, absolutely none of the eye-crinkling, pink-cheeked familiarity he was accustomed to. When they reached their neighborhood, his father had to carefully enter in a six-digit code, and when, not used to the Western numbers, he got it wrong, he had to press a small roll of bills into the hand of a frowning guard and show their crumpled rental documentation.

 

Entering in after the golden bars of the never-ending gate parted for them wasn’t much better. Despite the fact that it was mid-July and everywhere they’d driven past so far was withered down to a puke-yellow shade of crunchy, dead grass, their neighborhood sported only freshly-manicured, dark green lawns, blushing flowerbeds, and preening oaks. It took at least one minute to get from one driveway to the next (you couldn’t actually see the houses from the street), which means they must’ve passed fifteen before they got to the one they were renting.

 

Yuuri’s stomach clenched as he hopped out of the car and stared up at the mammoth of a house he was expected to live in from there on out. Three-stories of New England stone, dozens of clear, glass windows, a large deck off to the side cradled beneath a blooming canopy of lavender, the barest peek at a small pond wavering in the backyard. He was vaguely aware that this was the type of house that most people would kill for, spent their whole lives working for.

 

Yuuri just wanted beaten tatami matts and the yips of his best friend.

 

His mother placed a warm hand on his back and leaned down to smile into his eyes.

 

“Don’t worry, Yuuri,” she said. “It’ll feel like home soon. I promise.”

 

* * *

 

 

Victor Nikiforov was blessed with never having to feel lonely. From the moment he woke up, there was someone with him. A maid, usually, lugging open the drapes and tying them off as he groaned, squeezed his eyes tighter, and tugged the duvet over his head. A second maid would rip the blanket off and offer an arm draped in the towel he’d use for his morning bath. She’d usher him across the room and into his private bath where the water had already been drawn and a butler was waiting, back politely turned until Victor stripped and sunk down. Then he’d close his eyes and let himself be washed as the last tendrils of sleep drifted away in the steam of the water.

 

After two conditioning treatments for his shoulder-length hair (his mother’s favorite feature of his, probably because it resembled her own so much) he’d take the butler’s hand and step out of the tub into the towel the maid from before had unfolded for him. When he sat at the vanity, more people would filter in: some with clothes, some with food and tea, some to brush his hair, and some to fuss over his skin. He always bloomed beneath this routine, soaking it up like his own personal sunshine, growing bright smiles and bubbling warm ‘Thank you’s. They would all just bow politely in turn, expressionless Madame Tussauds as his mother had trained them to be, but Victor didn’t mind—he knew that they knew he was thankful, and that was enough.

 

Eventually he’d make his way across the house to what would someday serve as his personal study, just like father’s. For now it was used by his tutor, a frail man with a long, sharp nose, ill-fitting suits, and greased-back hair. Victor wasn’t entirely sure if the man ever went home, to be honest; he seemed to exist solely within the box of that room, leaning against the single window with a book in hand, one eyebrow raised at where Victor sat at the desk, no matter what the boy did.

 

Around noon, the lunch bell would be rung and Victor would be expected to head down to the dining room where he would sit in the chair to the right of the head. Occasionally his father or mother would also join him and he would be expected to recite everything that he’d learned in his lessons that day. But on most days, he ate quickly, trying his best to ignore the glaring silence by striking up a one-sided conversation with the maid standing behind him.

 

Immediately after lunch was language lessons in his mother tongue, Russian, followed by an hour of piano lessons and two hours of figure skating. By the time his driver drops him off back at the estate he’s so exhausted the only thing he can do is be helped into his pajamas and then slip into bed with a mumbled goodnight to the maids still hovering over him. Most nights he’s asleep by the time all the lights are turned off and everyone slips out. Those are the nights he prefers.

 

On the others, he lies awake and listens to the emptiness for hours.

 

* * *

 

 

That day, when Victor skipped down the stairs from his lessons, he was excited to see his mother and father already sitting at the table.

 

“Papa! Mama!” he called, bounding over.

 

His father spared him a dry glance. “Vitya, you’re old enough to know how to behave properly in the dining room. Make sure you do so.”

 

Victor knew it was supposed to come off as scolding, but he still couldn’t do much but smile as he climbed into his seat, too warm at the opportunity to see his parents together with him at the table like this. It wasn’t even a holiday!

 

“How were your lessons today?” his mother asked as a maid set his plate down in front of him.

 

“Boring,” he chirped, stabbing a forkful of salad.

 

His father sighed. “Vitya.”

 

“It’s true! We spent the whole time going over geography. I already learned about it all in school last year.”

 

“That’s the point of your summer lessons.” His father sets down his silverware and wipes at his mouth with the napkin in his lap. “To make sure you actually remember what you learned.”

 

Victor submissively ducked his head, but rolled his eyes at his salad bowl anyway. “Yes, father.”

 

“More importantly,” his mother interrupted after a long sip of wine, “we have new neighbors. Vitya, you’ll be taking a break from your afternoon lessons and coming with your father and I to welcome them.”

 

With a groan, Victor opened his mouth to protest that he wouldn’t miss skating lessons for the world, but his mother cut him off with a sharp look. He slunk further down in his seat with a twist in his mouth.

 

“Once you’re finished with your lunch, Katya will take you upstairs and clean you up. We expect you on your best behavior for the rest of the night.”

 

“Yes, mama.”

 

* * *

 

 

Victor remembers the old couple who’d lived in the house before the new neighbors. During the summer when he was five, sitting at the piano in the grand room as his instructed droned on, he’d stare at the sunflowers in the garden next door. They reminded him of the flowers his father used to bring home for his mother. He hadn’t done it in a while, and Victor thought that his mother might miss them; she used to smile so prettily when she’d come downstairs to find them sitting on the kitchen counter.

 

One day, when he’d found himself in a rare moment of being completely alone, not even a maid in sight, he tiptoed down the stairs, unlatched the front door, and slipped out. He ran on socked feet, the dew of the grass seeping through, all the way to that garden of sunflowers. He’d just take a few, just for his mama, so he could see her smile that pretty smile again. Grinning to himself, he yanked a single sunflower out of the ground.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Suddenly, he was grabbed by the wrist and yanked back; his feet tangled together and he fell, grass smearing across the knees of his trousers, palms scraped just on the side of raw. Tears sprung from his eyes immediately, but the screeching old woman, aged even further by the way severity stretched apart the grooves of every wrinkle on her face, just grappled him back up again and began dragging him back to the house. Her grip was bruising the whole way, Victor shouting and simpering as he struggled to pry her fingers away.

 

When they’d finally made it back to the house, her bony knuckles banging against the door so hard it seemed painful, he’d been swept up by the answering maid and delivered promptly to his mother’s study. He was still crying; tried running towards his mother with open arms, ready to tell her all about the mean woman next door. But when he got to her, she grabbed him by the jaw, tight enough that her red, manicured nails dug into his wet cheeks. “How many times have I told you you are not to go outside unattended, Victor?” Desperately, he tried to open his mouth, but her grip was too tight so all he could do was push flimsily at her hands, chest bouncing with sobs. “Never again, do you understand?” She rattled his head with one firm shake. “Understand?” Another cry whining in the back of his throat, he nodded frantically, pushing harder at her grip.

 

Finally, she let go, straightening up from her crouch and smoothening her skirt with those same hands as Victor took deep, shuddering breaths.

 

“Back to his room.”

 

Walking up to that same house now, he stole a glance to the backyard and found that the sunflowers had all been ripped out. In its place was a small little pond, cattails flouncing in the wind around it; in his mother’s hands was a crystal plate topped with a strawberry shortbread made by one of the live-in chefs. When they reached the front porch, his mother turned to him with a critical eye and tutted.

 

“Mikhail, fix his tie. It looks like Katya just flung it at him,” she said.

 

Sighing, his father bent to swiftly redo the tie, yanking the knot tight enough that Victor could feel its constant pressure, the discomfort of every bob of his Adam’s apple against his collar.

 

“Let’s get this over with,” his father said as he stepped away, adjusting his cufflinks and rolling back his shoulders.

 

His mother rang the doorbell, its sound heard echoing faintly through the house, and a moment later a short, plump woman lugged open the door, adjusting her wireframe glasses with one hand and wiping the other on the apron cinched around her waist. Her smile was warmer than Victor ever remembered seeing on someone before, paired with two small dimples on either side. 

 

“Hello,” she greeted. There was a small accent lingering around the edges of her ‘l’s. “Can I help you?”

 

Plastering on a toothy smile, his mother stretched out the platter a little. “Hello, we’re the neighbors. If the masters of the home aren’t indisposed at the moment, we were hoping to welcome them to the neighborhood with a small tea.”

 

The woman blinked a couple times, smile faltering. She flicked her eyes between the three of them, lingering on Victor a second longer than the others. “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding, but my husband and I are the owners of this home.”

 

“Oh.”

 

There was an awkward beat where no one said anything and Victor could feel the mood thicken. He adjusted his tie and cleared his throat, gaining the attention of all three adults.

 

“We brought cake!” he announced cheerily, clasping his hands behind his back to try to keep his posture as proper as possible. “It was supposed to be my dessert tonight, but mother thought you would enjoy it so I let her take it with us.”

 

“Shortbread,” his mother admonished. “Not cake.”

 

He was quick to reassure, “But it tastes as good as cake!”

 

That warm smile was back under the woman’s rosy cheeks again, and Victor could feel his chest swell a little knowing that he was able to clear up the mood.

 

“Well,” she said, leaning down to Victor’s height, “we better not waste your dessert. In fact, I know of two kids about your age who I’m sure would love to share it with you, if you’re willing.” She paused and looked up at his parents. “And if your parents are still interested in tea.”

 

“Kids my age?”

 

At once, he unfurled, bouncing on the tips of his toes and clutching his hands under his chin. Having been homeschooled and privately tutored in everything up until then meant that Victor hardly met any kids his own age. To have not one but _two_ living right next door to him was a dream come true.

 

“Mama, papa, please!” he begged. “Can we go in so I can meet them?”

 

His mother opened her mouth to say something, her face pinched in the way that it always was when she was unhappy about something, but his father grunted and started ushering them forward before she could get a word in.

 

“We’ve already cleared our schedules for this,” was all he said, but the plump woman took it in stride, opening the door wider and asking for them to please remove their shoes as they stepped in.

 

As soon as his loafers had been kicked off to the side, Victor ran ahead to the kitchen Hiroko was gesturing to, completely ignoring his parents’ cries. At home, whenever he would barge into the kitchen he would run into at least three of the twenty bustling staff in there as they busily prepared for whatever meal was next. The Katsuki kitchen was almost entirely barren by contrast, just a graying man at the stove, flipping something sizzling in a pan, and a young girl who looked maybe a little older tan Victor elbows-deep in a box labelled in characters he’d never seen before. She glanced up at him, eyes roving his figure before becoming apparently disinterested and going back to unpacking some plates; Victor deflated. She didn’t seem as friendly as he’d thought she’d be.

 

Hiroko came in then, placing a hand on Victor’s shoulder. “Toshiya, Mari, these are the neighbors from next door. They’ve stopped by for tea.”

 

Toshiya waved happily from the stove, but Mari just nodded politely as she started arranging on the counter the plates she’d unpacked on the counter. Victor couldn’t help but be disappointed; he’d thought he’d finally be able to make a friend, but it didn’t seem like Mari was interested at all. Or maybe she was just unbearably dull. A lot of the kids at his parents’ parties were like that.

 

“We’ll have to stand for now—we haven’t unpacked the chairs yet, but—oh, where’s Yuuri?”

 

“Soto,” Mari grunted.

 

“Oh, well, Victor, did you want to go outside and play with Yuuri? He’s a little shy, but I’m sure you’d get along.”

 

That’s right! There was _another_ kid! “Okay!”

 

Without waiting for a response, Victor rushed for the porch door, though he could hear Hiroko laughing and saying something to his parents behind him. He vaulted down the porch steps, at least one splinter cutting into his palm from the chipped railing he gripped, and then, finally, as soon as his feet hit the grass, he saw the little boy crouched over the pond at the edge of the yard, cattails nearly obscuring him.

 

“Hi!” Victor shouted, bouncing on his toes and waving.

 

The little boy whipped around so hard he fell flat on his butt.

 

Gasping, Victor rushed over to him, gathering him up by the shoulders to try and get him back on his feet.

 

“Are you okay?” he asked once he was sure the boy was steady again.

 

The boy looked at him, wide brown eyes shining much too brightly to be normal, chapped bottom lip wobbling, and then burst into tears, grass stained hands slapping over his face to hide it.

 

Victor stared at him, hands out and wavering. What had he done? All he had wanted was to make a friend! Oh God, was this why mother and father always kept him locked up at home? Because they knew that he was a horrible friend?

 

On the next blink, Victor realized he was crying too, fat tears dropping off his lashes and landing on the hands he hadn’t realize he’d curled into fists.

 

“P-please don’t cry. I’m sorry, I didn’t....” A sob trailed off his words.

 

With his shoulders still jumping with the cries he was trying to hold back, the little boy slowly took his hands away from his face to look at Victor.

 

“Wh—why’re you crying?” he asked.

 

“Because I made you cry!”

 

The little boy blinked up at Victor, chest slowly calming down as his cries quieted. And then, slowly, a warbling smile worked his way up his lips, followed by off-pitch, shaking laughter. His eyes screwed shut with it and chubby hands wiped away the last of his tears, some of the grass stains smearing onto his red cheeks.

 

“That’s silly!” he said between laughs.

 

Little by little, Victor let his own smile return to his face, much softer and much shier now. He wiped at his own tears and said, very quietly, “I like your laugh.”

 

The guffaws settled down into giggles. “I like your hair.”

 

Victor fingered one of the silver strands, twisting it around. “Really? My tutor said I should cut it because it’s too long.”

 

“I like that it’s long,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s like my sister’s! But she said she hates her and wants to cut it all off, too. Kaasan won’t let her, so she makes me knot it back all the time.”

 

 “Knot it? Why would she want that?”

 

“Uh, not ‘knot,’ really, um. I don’t know the word….” He hesitated, reached out a little hand, then cradled it back to his chest, eyes flicking around everywhere. “I could…show you instead?”

 

He frowned. “You’re not gonna hurt it, are you?”

 

The boy squeaked, hands vigorously waving back in forth in front of him. “No, no, no!”

 

“Hmm,” Victor hummed, tapping a finger to his lips. Finally, a smile bloomed. “Okay! I trust you!”

 

The boy twisted his hands together behind his back, smiling softly, happily, warm just like his mother’s, ruddy cheeks glowing. His eyes shined.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time the boys were called back inside, Victor’s hair was tied back in a French braid littered with weeds that looked just bright enough, just pretty enough, to be mistaken for flowers.

 

“Mama, look!” Victor called as he twirled his way through the porch door. “Yuuri did it, isn’t it pretty?”

 

His mother’s lips were pinched together, the wrinkles from her smoking days that were usually hidden now crinkling forward and making her look five years older. It was a look that Victor wasn’t unfamiliar with, and he stilled, dropping down from his toes and twining his fingers together in front of him. He could feel Yuuri beside him glancing between him and his mother, but Victor kept staring forward, eyes locked on the small scuff in the point of his mother’s black shoe.

 

“Yes, very nice,” she said tightly.

 

His father sighed, but Victor just kept looking at that scuff.

 

Wrapping Victor’s wrist in a bruising grip, she lurched him forward so that he was pressed against her side and inhaling the plastic hydrangea scent of her perfume. What had he done? He couldn’t think of why she was upset, why his father was sighing, why everyone seemed to be looking everywhere but him.

 

“Well, thank you for the tea, but Victor has a lesson to get to so we really must be going. Have a nice rest of your evening,” his mother continued.

 

“Ah, yes,” Hiroko placed a hand between Yuuri’s shoulders with a smile just as soft as the first one, if not a little tighter. Yuuri was still staring at him, eyes wide, fingers twitching in the hem of his sweaty t-shirt. “It was kind of you to visit, thank you.”

 

Victor’s mother nodded once, curtly, then turned on her heel, tugging a stumbling Victor after her. The small family put their shoes back on in silence, but the second the front door closed behind them, his mother huffed.

 

“I cannot believe people like _that_ were allowed to move into this neighborhood. And turning their home into an _inn?_ Just what kind of country do they think this is? It’s not a primitive stomping ground like theirs, we have actual _standards_ to uphold here.” Her fingers were still digging into the flesh of Victor’s wrist; it was starting to burn.

 

“Valen—“ his father began.

 

“And look at what their child did to Vitya! Like he’s some kind of _girl_ —“

 

They were only halfway home, still clacking down the sparkling white sidewalk, but his mother pulled up short and yanked as hard as she could at the hair tie at the end of his hair.

 

“Mama!”

 

She ignored him, sharp nails nicking his scalp as she tore at every flower she could find, tossing them on the ground and yanking every one of Yuuri’s careful folds along the way.

 

“No son of mine,” she was saying, “is going to be treated like some sort of _doll_ by squinty-eyed, foreigner _help_.”

 

Victor was crying again, feeling strands rip from his head, nails messily scraping his face, the hard work of his new friend being torn up like it was nothing, like Yuuri was nothing.

 

“Mama, stop! P-please!”

 

She grabbed his chin, those cherry red acrylics digging into his tear tracks as she yanked his face up to stare directly into the stone blue of her eyes. With a sickening twist in his chest, Victor was violently reminded of that day last year, being thrown into her office after trying to pick her sunflowers.

 

“You will never see that boy or his family again, Vitya.”

 

“But—“

 

She jerks his head again, making him shout. “Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, mama! Stop! Please!”

 

Tossing his face aside, she smoothed down the skirt of her dress, shook her head with a click of her tongue, then continued down the sidewalk. Victor pressed his fists into his eyes, his whole chest shaking, his legs feeling as wobbly as the Jello he was only ever allowed to have on Christmas. He didn’t want it—not the Jello, not the nails scratching and digging, not the tight sighs or the crinkled lips or the bruises in his wrist. In that moment, the only thing he wanted was his pretty hair back.

 

A hand, in between his shoulder blades, pushing him forward once, roughly. He stumbled along with it.

 

“Come, Vitya. Time to go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for Victor's parents and their racism. I'll try to keep it toned down for the rest of the fic--I just wanted to establish who they were as people first and, well, they're awful. 
> 
> Up next: The Best Girl (aka our favorite bun-loving poodle). 
> 
> If you liked it, let me know to continue with kudos and reviews! I hope to see you next chapter!


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